


just take me home

by confectionerybrick



Series: 1989 [1]
Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hiatus fic, Post-2x23, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 14:20:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4669856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/confectionerybrick/pseuds/confectionerybrick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Somehow, they'd been too overwhelmed to address it, what with the changes at work on every level, and they'd been swept into late night stakeouts with other people and midnight take-out orders at their desks, and suddenly Amy feels like the whirlpool might swallow her if she even dares to dip a toe into the choppy waves.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Amy texts Jake for a ride home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	just take me home

**Author's Note:**

> This is inspired by the song Style by Taylor Swift, but you don't have to know it to understand/enjoy the fic.

“Hey, thanks for this. I didn't know who else to call.”

Amy flops down into the sunken car seat and heaves the door shut. Her skirt is plastered to her legs and she pushes wet vines of hair from her face, smearing her lipstick in the process.

“No problem,” Jake replies, eyes flicking over her before turning back to the street. “I was just leaving work when I got your text. You don't have a spare tyre?”

“I don't have _four_. They figured out I was a cop and slashed them all.”

“Oh, man, that car is _beautiful_ ,” he croons mournfully _._ “I hope the rims don't bend...” She glances across at him, half in humour, and he clears his throat. “I mean, sorry it was such a bust.”

Amy sighs, then relaxes back into the seat. “I called dispatch and they sent a tow truck, but I didn't fancy riding with them to the precinct to fill out forms I can do tomorrow. It's been a long night.”

Jake's car is blasting warm air from the vents and smells a little less of frat-boy funk than his old one; it doesn't feel so much like _Jake's_ as his old Mustang did, but there are already chip crumbs in the cup holders and 90s rap pulsing from the speakers. As if reading her mind, he turns the music dial down – it's already barely audible over the rain drumming on the roof of the car.

He pulls out into the street, wipers working furiously against the downpour. The tyres carve through liquid mirrors, reflecting splashes of colour from traffic lights and shop fronts. Due to the storm, progress is slow and stilted for a dark Thursday night. Jake turns the heat up on the AC, and soon the wisps of Amy's hair are dry and curling.

“I wasn't sure you'd come,” Amy blurts, having been grasping for something to say.

Jake brakes to avoid tailgating the car ahead. “I don't... what?”

Amy squeezes her eyes shut for a few seconds. _Stupid._ It had been fine between them for weeks, but now the car seems stuffy and the hollow sound of rain makes the space seem small and enclosed. She twists her hands together, flashing back to the last time they were alone in the evidence lock-up, and knows that _fine_ isn't what she wants at all.

Somehow, they'd been too overwhelmed to address it, what with the changes at work on every level, and they'd been swept into late night stakeouts with other people and midnight take-out orders at their desks, and suddenly Amy feels like the whirlpool might swallow her if she even dares to dip a toe into the choppy waves.

“It's just... been a while since we hung out outside of work? I don't know. Never mind. I got you these from the bodega while I waited. As a – a thank you.”

She digs into her bag and pulls out a small box of powdered doughnuts, their fingers brushing as she passes them over the handbrake. His face instantly lights up, and she laughs affectionately as he tries to dig into the box one handed.

“Figured your new car could use some Jake-ing up,” she says, taking the box back to open it for him as the traffic clears, and they roar down empty residential streets. “Didn't have enough money for a cab, but dusting your car with sugar, I can do.”

“Dope! Thanks, Ames.”

Amy isn't normally one to divulge but the ache of hunger curls in her stomach, so she takes one and bites into the soft dough. Jake offers a jelly-laden grin, and she tells him how long it took her to get every crumb out of her AC vents and how it still smells like a bakery when she turns the heat up. They munch quietly for a few minutes, and Amy's lips pinch together when she sees white smudges on the handbrake. She refuses a fourth doughnut, tucking the box into his glove compartment and sucking on her sticky fingers.

Her legs glue to the leather seats and make a satisfying peeling sound as she folds and unfolds her legs, regretting the choice of clothing for her undercover disguise. She feels Jake's eyes flick over her, and as she turns toward the passenger window he runs his free hand though wild, end-of-shift hair, like he does when a case is particularly vexing him. He's wearing a plain white t-shirt under his leather jacket, and Amy wonders if he was deliberately going for the James Dean look.

She clears her throat as they turn a corner, and the buildings of a familiar Williamsburg avenue peer at them though the dark. “How was court on Monday?”

“Oh, uh... fine. Good.” He drums his fingers on the wheel, not meeting her eyes. “Open and shut embezzlement case, the defence had no chance.”

“The attorney anyone you know?”

He pauses, then - “Sophia.”

Amy's mouth opens and shuts like a goldfish as she tries to find something to respond with. They'd never much talked about Jake's ex since they'd broken up, much like Amy not speaking of Teddy any more.

“What... happened?” is what she settles for, and then the urge to babble overtakes her. “Did she speak to you? Sorry. I mean – I didn't – let's just -”

“Amy, stop. It's fine.” She's hot under his gaze.

“Sorry.”

“You don't have to avoid talking about her, or wince when you do,” Jake continues, and she hears a smile in his voice. “She's not Lord Voldemort, or anything. That's a chapter of my life that... well, it's closed, and I'm completely fine with it. Monday wasn't the first time we've been opposite each other since we broke up; we run into each other professionally every now and again – more than I mention to the squad, because it's not necessary. I don't have feelings for her any more, you don't have to worry.”

There's a loaded pause, then, and Amy's thoughts stick in her throat.

“I didn't mean – when I asked... I wasn't implying -”

“No, it's fine,” he repeats, and she looks down at her twisting hands.

Their arrival on Amy's street brings a bitter sweet comfort to her; she'd enjoyed the brief trip in Jake's car, chatting like friends, but the last part of their conversation leaves her anxious to hide in her apartment, away from her feelings and racing thoughts. He pulls in a few doors down from hers, shutting off the engine, and as she reaches down for her bag in the foot well she catches his gaze on her again, from the shadows this time. He leans towards her then into the back seat for something; it's an umbrella, grey in the filtered light.

“What about you?”

“I'll walk you to your door and take it back. The heating's off at my place so I'm not getting soaked for anything.”

He jogs round to the sidewalk and flourishes the umbrella, which instantly gets caught in a gust of wind and carries him a few feet in the wrong direction. A bubble of laughter breaks from Amy's lungs and then turns into a shriek from the cold, and Jake chases her to the shelter of her building stoop.

“You in tomorrow?” he asks as she roots for keys, shaking her bag for the familiar jangle.

“Uh – yeah,” she replies as a flash of lightning illuminates the street. “Need to write up the complete disaster that was this evening. Where are these god damned keys? Oh -”

She holds them up to the weak light, momentarily distracted by a drop of water running off the end of Jake's nose. She lets herself into the building and he follows, shaking out the umbrella onto the cold marble floor, and the patter of water and scuff of his footsteps fill her with a nervous anticipation.

He's silent as she opens her apartment door, and all the things that hang in the pregnant air between them, unspoken, say more than any excuse he could give for unexpectedly coming inside. They're half-lit by the cheap sockets from the hallway and when she closes the door, not quite reaching the switch, she catches him watching her again.

“Quit it, Peralta. Do I have lipstick all over my face or something?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, “and you, you look...”

Out of anybody in her life, Jake surprises Amy the most frequently and to the greatest degree. Her lungs empty in shock as he pulls her to him, lips finding each other as though they haven't been separated and pretending not to want this for the past few weeks (months, _year_ ). His fingers tighten on the damp material at her waist and Amy's struck by the amount of blood that rushes to her head at that one gesture. After a few seconds she returns some of the pressure, pressing him into the door.

Amy kisses him back with all the ferocity of past bad timings and lost opportunities, with those low-belly flutters that had come to her on long nights and between the chasm of scuffed metal that was their desk space. His jacket, cold under her short nails, contrasts with his flurry of soft hair and she takes a moment to try and stop her mind spinning round and round this whirlwind of a man, who smiles brilliantly and tells dumb jokes and pushes her in directions she'd never believed she would go.

Jake pulls away gently, clearly recovering some degree of self-restraint that Amy can't seem to find in herself, until they're only touching foreheads.

“It's probably a good thing you don't come to work sopping wet; God knows I had enough trouble resisting doing that in the car,” he says, voice low and with an attempt at light-heartedness. Amy swallows thickly as she watches his lips move in the semi-dark, smudged in her own scarlet paint. She finds the mess surprisingly hot. “I'm sorry if I...”

“No,” she replies, cutting him off. “Don't – don't be sorry.”

She feels alive, shrinkwrapped in wet clothing that isn't her style at all (aside from the red lipstick, which she finds emboldening). When they touch again, she forgets about work and her car and the world outside Jake's fingertips as they make light work of his jacket then slowly work to peel off her skirt. She folds into the rough pleasure of denim against her as he carries her to the bedroom, and surrenders to the dizzying force of desire as they each continue to lose items of clothing, Jake's mouth barely leaving her as they progress. He marvels at her expanse of skin with wild eyes, pressing wet, open mouthed kisses down the centre of her chest. Amy watches the muscles of his arms and shoulders flex in the moonlight, the sharp lines of his back moving and bending. She jumps head first into the waves, drinking him in.

He's innately vocal, she notes dimly as he lights her up from the inside out. She can't even imagine the first few years she knew him, when she spent half their conversations wishing she could hear anything but the sound of his voice; now he gasps praises into her neck, whispers soft words that steam between their lips, and Amy never wants it to end. They roll and press and move together until she doesn't know which way is up, only that Jake's touch is like an ember and it's all over her, inside her, it _is_ her. Before she has sufficient warning, her hands are gripping his hair desperately and the sensation is just too much; she crests with blind eyes and shaking thighs, feeling as though all the oxygen just left the room.

They come down together, drinking in the loud buzz of silence with linked hands and curled, cooling bodies on Amy's floral sheets. She watches Jake, his head tucked softly on her shoulder as he seems to stare at nothing beyond the rise and fall of her chest.

“I only think about you,” he whispers, as though the sentiment just catches on his breath as it leaves him. “We haven't discussed it, but... you must know.”

Amy tilts her head and he shifts to meet her, as if he heard her heart pound at his confession. She takes in his wide, vulnerable stare, the slow stroke of his fingers on her stomach and the almost amusing taste of doughnuts between them, and nods.

“Me, too. About you.”

When dawn comes and Amy's alarm shakes them from shared unconsciousness, the daylight shows them the smudges of lipstick all over their faces, necks, chests and pillows, and they laugh until they're late for work.

 

 

 


End file.
